


Mister Turner's Masterpiece

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Fallen Angel [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art Theft, Case Fic, Gen, Russian Mafia, Sherlock's Talking when John's Not There, sherlock in disguise, the Sigursson Plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wondered about the cases that got Sherlock all the publicity at the start of the Reichenbach Falls Episode? All we saw was the press coverage about the solutions for three cases. Here's the back story of the first one, where Sherlock tackles an art theft, ends up in disguise in St Petersburg, where the Russian Mafia are deeply unhappy. But Sherlock left John at home because the doctor must not find out that he's laying the groundwork for his plot to take down Moriarty's network.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Welcome back, you two. Did you have a good time in Devon?"

Mrs Hudson was wiping the flour off her hands onto her apron as she greeted them in the hallway.

"Not a holiday, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock was already half way up the stairs, as the front door banged shut behind John.

She watched as he disappeared, and then gave John a concerned look. "Are you two alright?"

"Definitely not a holiday, Mrs Hudson." His tone of voice tried to forestall any further conversation as he trudged up the stairs in Sherlock's wake. The long train journey had stiffened his left leg and he limped a bit. The previous night's nightmares didn't help his mood either. A double dose of hallucinogen, followed by Falkland's suicide by mine field, brought back the PTSD with a vengeance.

"Something was delivered for Sherlock this morning. I left it on the kitchen table." The landlady's voice followed him up the stairs. By the time he reached the kitchen, Sherlock had already dumped his bag and shed his coat. He was opening a cardboard box and pulling out a slim file.

"What's that?"

"Salvation." There was pure delight in Sherlock's voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" If John sounded a little wary, it was probably because the last three days had taken a toll on his sense of adventure. He went around Sherlock and put the kettle on. As he opened the fridge, he sighed. "I'll go borrow some milk from Mrs, Hudson; I'm too tired to go out just yet."

"Don't bother on my account, John."

That made him look up as he started to stuff a tea bag into his favourite RAMC mug. He realised that he'd not bothered to get a second cup down anyway. "Why not?"

Sherlock was now shouldering his Belstaff back on. "Because I am going  _out_."

"We just got back, and you are already leaving again." The tone was tired and just a little peeved.

"Yes. A case, John. A  _proper_  case!" He was half way out the door before John reacted.

"Well, count me out of this one."

That didn't stop Sherlock. Over his shoulder, as he disappeared back down the steps, floated his reply, "Doesn't matter. You don't like art cases, and this is definitely an art case." Then he was gone, the front door banging shut before John could reply.

While the tea brewed in his cup, John picked up the cardboard box, addressed in black marker to Sherlock Holmes, and marked in the same pen "the first of three." There was no postmark, no return address.  _The first of three what?_

oOo

In the back of the taxi, Sherlock devoured the contents of the slim folder. The top sheet was a photograph of a painting. _The Great Falls of the Reichenbach_ was JMW Turner's watercolour masterpiece. Painted at Petworth House in 1804 for the artist's greatest patron, the third Earl of Egremont, it was the most famous of his landscapes that drew the crowds to London's Clore Gallery at the Tate Museum. The fourth earl had sold it to Charles Higgins of Bedford, a magnate who had made his fortune by brewing beer. It had been displayed for over a century in the Higgins Museum in Bedford before being loaned to the Tate Museum*. Now, the owners wanted to sell it- and that meant it was likely to go to an overseas buyer.

The newspapers had been full of it for the weeks leading up to the auction at Sotheby's, because selling it would "deprive the nation of one of its most prestigious artist's finest works". To help the cause, the British Government had imposed an export ban to allow a public subscription campaign to be run by the Tate. But after nine months, it had only managed to scrape together just under a million pounds, well below the reserve price, which had been set at £1.7 million. Interest from several Swiss billionaires had been hyped in the press into a bidding war, with the art world buzzing that a new world record price for a British watercolour was about to be set. The last time a Turner had been auctioned, the oil painting had sold for a British record- just under £30 million. Talk now was that the watercolour might well beat the watercolour record set in 2006- over £5 million, for another Turner watercolour. No British collector or museum could afford that sort of money- that one had gone to an anonymous buyer, who had agreed to keep it in the country- just not on public view.

So, when three days ago, the Reichenbach Falls painting was stolen on the night before the auction, the newspapers went mad. Headlines read "Art Thief Saves Turner for the Nation?"

As Sherlock crossed the threshold of 34 New Bond Street, he was smiling in anticipation. He knew that Mycroft's ban on cases for the Yard had stopped the flow of work from Lestrade, but clearly the MI6 Director had been able to squeeze this one through, probably because it was being handled by the Met's Art and Antiques Unit. And the fact that Mrs Ffoukes was involved in bringing the case to him suggested that the theft had some links to overseas crime. He relished the opportunity to get his mind wrapped around the complex layers of the case.

 _This one will annoy Mycroft._  That was another bonus. The Department for Culture, Media and Sport would be embarrassed at the Met's inability to protect a major artistic asset of the nation. That Sherlock was being brought in as a consultant would have been approved at ministerial level, and over his brother's protests.  _Oh, Elizabeth, you have DELIVERED!_

He was still smirking when in the lobby he was met by Detective Inspector Shearwater, whom he had phoned on his way to the auction house. The tall thin man with grey hair and a worried look crossed the marbled hall and greeted Sherlock warmly.

"Holmes, thank God. We've had absolutely no luck on this one, and I am at wit's end. So glad you can help out." Then the smile was replaced by a tentative look. "I do hope you are still working for free. The budget won't stand any more outlays this financial year."

The consulting detective nodded and rolled out his most polite persona. "If you could show me to the crime scene and talk me through it, I would be grateful."

Shearwater was old school- in fact, so old that he should have retired three years ago, but stayed on because the Met had threatened not to replace him. The art world and the government were still locked in mortal combat over who should pay for the policing needed to protect such an esoteric area. Unlike the 21 Murder Investigation teams, A&A as it was known, attracted little priority, and had been starved of funds for years. The Home Office and the Met tried to attract private funding from the Arts world and, perhaps more logically, the insurers of art and antiques, but to no avail. The budget for the unit had been slashed in half five years ago, and the unit's performance had deteriorated accordingly.

Shearwater turned toward the grand staircase and gestured up. "I've asked Rachel Harmon and Bob Sachs to join us…" Sherlock started up the stairs. "…The director in charge of the sale, and the head of London security, respectively. I'm glad to be able to hand these two over to you. They've been on my back for the past three days. But you know the problems we face."

Sherlock did know, all too well. With only three on his team, Shearwater was hopelessly at sea. The London Stolen Art database had over 57,000 items on it. Less than 15% of those items would ever be recovered. While fine art had a slightly better recovery rate, over three quarters of thefts valued over £250,000 were never solved. All too often thought of as a "victimless crime", the organised criminals behind most of the thefts were delighted that London politics meant that there were more officers dealing with dog-related crime than there were in the Arts and Antiques squad. Private collections were the usual targets, but every so often a high-profile public painting was stolen- often to order.

There was a guard at the door of the main auction room. He nodded at the DI, and swiped his pass to release the electronic lock on the door. It was an old building, and the main auction room was decorated in a traditional style, brass chandeliers from the ceiling provided light. As a concession to the global character of auctions, there was a bank of seats on the back wall with laptop and phone sockets. These would be used for the anonymous or foreign bidders. The chairs in the room still had the sale catalogue sitting on each seat.

Rachel Harmon was about thirty-five years old. Smartly dressed, her conservative blue suit and matching high heels contrasted sharply, however, with the worried frown wrinkles across her forehead. By her side was a smaller man, darker skinned, compactly built, with a suspicious look in his eyes. He spoke first. "Detective Inspector, I do hope you've brought some good news. I would have expected more progress by now. Did the forensic tests come up with anything?"

DI Shearwater grimaced as he said, "Still waiting for the results of the tests on the trace we took; it's not a murder case, so we're likely to be waiting a while longer." The apology was implied in his tone. He was forever apologising for the lack of progress.

The young woman crossed her arms and looked askance. "No wonder the biggest art sales in the world have moved to the USA; at least  _there_  the NYPD takes the threat more seriously. We would never have run this auction here in London if it weren't for the fact that Turner is British and the Government has put a stop order on the painting's export."

The DI decided that distraction would be the best form of defence. "Miss Harmon, this is Sherlock Holmes. He is a consultant with the Met and has an excellent track record of being able to find things that go missing." Sherlock gave her his client smile, the one that John said worked with most people, but not with him. The doctor said that to him it screamed insincerity.  _There's only so much effort I am willing to put into the acting, John._

The consulting detective's charm didn't seem to impress the Sotheby's sale director. She gave him the once over, her eye running up and down Sherlock as if she were appraising some piece of art for its value. The frown didn't leave her face.

"So, the Met can afford to outsource its work to a 'consultant'?"

"I work for free; it's my sense of civic duty." He hoped she caught the intended irony.

"Wonderful. Why should I be surprised that they would look for someone cheap?" She sounded fed up, and disgusted.

It was on the tip of his tongue- the usual acerbic reply, using his deductive observations to tell her not to take her personal, sexual and career frustrations with the job out on him.

 _Don't, Sherlock. It's rude. She won't be co-operative if you tell her what you REALLY think of her._ That this admonishment was delivered in his head in John's voice did not surprise him in the least. It was one of the oddities of their case work together. When there was no body, no murderer, John's appetite would wane. "What do I know about art? Not a thing. Can't help. And I hate standing around being useless, not able to understand what the hell you are talking about. I'll give those cases a miss." Sherlock wished that he didn't miss John's assistance on the art cases.  _Sentimental. You're right, and if you can't contribute, then what's the point?_  But, he could imagine what the doctor would say.

A tiny smirk formed as he realised he was  _hearing voices_  in his head. Not something to admit to anyone. And then the smirk faded as he realised that there would have to be many more such occasions in the future, if he was to carry through with his plans for Moriarty. In a rather subdued tone, he ignored her barb, asking "Miss Harmon, perhaps if you could show me where the painting was when it was last seen?"

Sachs sniffed. He pointed out the empty stage at the end of the room, and the white wall behind it. "It was brought in and hung there for a bidders' preview on the evening before the auction."

Now the woman joined in the conversation. "It's when I and the team are here to answer the specialist questions- things about provenance, curation, valuations, the technical issues of colour fading, any restoration work. It was returned by the technicians to the vault downstairs at 10pm. When they arrived in the morning to bring it back up here, the security container only held…"

"…an empty frame." Sherlock finished the woman's sentence for her. The file contained the same details. "Locked, was it?"

Sachs took over, with a gruff "Yes, of course. The painting container is always locked when it's being moved or stored. It was locked when the boys opened it, and found the contents missing. And there was no sign that the vault had been opened either. In fact, the security data- the camera and the electrical circuitry records of the vault confirm that it was not opened at all between the time the painting was stored there and when they returned to collect it again."

DI Shearwater butted in. "We've given the vault a complete going over- no sign of entry anywhere."

That raised a sarcastic laugh from the Head of Security. "Well, excuse me if I don't trust the Met's thoroughness. I also got the vault designers and the best security consultant in the world in here yesterday. Our insurers demanded it. As valuable as the Turner is, our reputation is even more precious. This business is over two hundred and fifty years old, but no one will trust us if we can't keep their sale items secure. The vault, the security container and our procedures passed with flying colours- nobody, and I mean  _nobody_  could have got in and out of that vault to steal the painting."

"I presume you interviewed the technicians who moved the painting?" Sherlock knew that even with his limited resources, Shearwater should have been able to manage that, as well as an investigation into the two men who had moved the Turner.

"Yes, of course." The DI shrugged. "Everything checked out."

Harmon said impatiently, "Of course, we've done our homework. These aren't hired hands, you know. We do extensive checks before and during their time with us. These particular employees, Robert Simkins and Jeremy Farwell, have been with the company for decades. They are a safe pair of hands- our safest, in fact. That's why we trusted them to carry and display the painting. A damned sight more artwork gets damaged by being dropped than stolen, I can assure you."

"Speaking of which…" Sherlock flashed her another one of his smiles. "…how much is it insured for?"

The woman sighed. "The owners have it protected for a million. We have indemnity insurance for when it's in our safekeeping for another three quarters of a million. That's why we've seen the insurance team investigators putting a lot more effort into this case than the Metropolitan Police have. They've more incentive."

"Hmm. If it's recovered intact, both you and the owner win because the sale price is likely to go up due to the publicity. If it's not, then you both get to claim the reserve price. That's just the sort of 'win-win' that gives art theft such a reputation as a victimless crime."

The woman bristled. "You have no idea just what this means for the London team." She was livid as she turned to include DI Shearwater in her anger. "Sotheby's is in the middle of a dispute with an activist shareholder. We're under intense pressure to perform at the highest levels, and to maximise our profits at a time when the auction sector is going through torrid times. The 2008 financial crash has just squashed us. This theft could not come at a worse time for us. So if you think that this doesn't matter to us, then you can take your bloody consultant and get out, if you please. There are people's jobs and careers at stake here. "

She marched off back out the room. Robert Sachs started chuckling. "She gets a little emotional. Oh, don't get me wrong. I think the whole thing stinks. And if there's one reputation that is sure to be ruined, its mine. And if the investors decide to close the London operation, Miss Harmon and the others will be able to get other jobs. I won't- I'll be the man who was supposed to be on watch when the painting disappeared. So, if you have any ideas or can be of any help at all, I suggest you get down to it. Otherwise, I have things to do." And without waiting to hear whether Sherlock or the DI had any ideas, the head of security followed Miss Harmon out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Later, much later- in fact, it was now technically the middle of the night- but Sherlock didn't care.  _Actually, this is better._  Two o'clock in the morning meant no interruptions from a flatmate who was being too nosy for his own good.

The peace and quiet of Baker Street in the wee hours of the morning gave him time to re-think the events of the day.

He'd wasted too much time hanging about New Scotland Yard while DI Shearwater and his team briefed him on the forensic tests that they had asked to be done. Sherlock paced the small room used by the DI and his three PCs as they gave him chapter and verse on their investigation of the crime scene. Finally, Sherlock's patience had snapped, and he barked "Can't wait any longer for the tests; push the case up the queue."

The older man just laughed, and the three constables joined in. "This isn't one of Lestrade's murders, Mister Holmes.  _Bodies_  take priority.  _Things_  have to wait."

PC Foster added, "and  _expensive_  things wait the longest. Wealthy owners just cash in the insurance policy and go shopping. I've seen a Lambeth estate kid cry more over the theft of his ghetto-blaster than I have a foreigner living in Belgravia get emotional over something worth millions that's been stolen. It's a whole different world."

Shearwater shrugged philosophically. "I don't blame the powers that be; the people who are the victims of the crimes we investigate- well, a lot of them aren't citizens and don't vote. Art theft is  _never_  on the list of Londoners' fears about crime."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the man's defeatist tone. "I don't care.  _I_ don't want to waste any more of  _my_  time. So, go get the samples you logged in and I will do the tests myself tonight."

The other PC on the team, Suresh Singh, shook his head. "That will screw up the chain of evidence. Can't have  _amateurs_  handling the stuff."

Sherlock turned towards the turbaned young man. "You're  _new_  here."

He leaned closer and subjected the young man to a forensic glare. The Sikh constable had the decency to look embarrassed. The consulting detective returned his gaze to the DI before continuing. "This case is worth millions. It might come to trial; it might not. If and when it does, my tests will have been confirmed by whatever forensic lab to which the Met is currently outsourcing its work. The difference is that, in the meantime, I will have caught the criminals who did this and your unit will be sharing in the glory, without having had to lift a finger or spend a precious penny of the London taxpayers' money. Have I missed anything out, Detective Inspector?"

Shearwater had the decency to smile. "Not a thing, Mister Holmes. Glad to be of service. Singh- go check out the evidence boxes and personally deliver them to wherever Mister Holmes tells you to take them."

The first hour at Barts' lab was spent examining the security container in which the painting had been kept when not on display. It took him twenty minutes to confirm that there were in fact no signs that the lock had been picked. He had the key and subjected that to intensive microscopic scrutiny- to see if any trace remained behind if an impression of the key had been made. The key was kept locked in a safe in the main security room- outside the vault. Sachs was the one to use it last, when the painting was taken down from the sale room wall. Nothing, nothing at all. In fact, the key was clean, almost too clean. No scratch marks. No indentations where the metal of the key contacted the tumblers of the lock. It was almost as if the key were brand new.

The digital cameras in the sale room had recorded the whole procedure of the case being opened, the painting being removed, and then hung on display. The four hours it had been in the room were also recorded. And Singh, despite his  _newness,_  had managed to name every one of the people in the room who had examined the painting and spoken to Miss Harmon about the technical issues, on behalf of their respective buyers. It was a list of the best experts in the business, most of whom worked for museums or wealthy collectors. The three PCs had been busy tracking down each and every one of the twenty three people, to ensure that they were who the Auction House thought they were when they issued credentials.

Sherlock scanned the list, and the photo IDs that they all had to wear once their identities had been confirmed before they got in the room. It was a standard procedure, and it appeared to have been applied scrupulously.

He sighed. Then he got up and stretched, feeling the kinks work out of his back as he stretched his arms high over his head, and rolled his head first to the left and then to the right. He found change in a pocket and went to the coffee machine three floors down. At some point in the afternoon, Barts had emptied of people while he was concentrating on the work.The building's automatic lights came on and followed him down the corridor, and then went off behind him as he climbed the stairs back to the lab.

Time to examine the empty frame. He put on a new pair of sterile gloves. The plain gilt frame was nothing special- like many of the Turner watercolours exhibited at the Tate's Clore Gallery, the Reichenbach painting had been re-framed when the gallery was opened in 1987. The glass had already been dusted for fingerprints both inside and outside the frame. Close examination revealed only two different sets. He knew that the technicians moving the painting in and out of the Sotheby's security box were wearing gloves, so unlikely theirs were involved. He hacked into the Met's fingerprint database and sent the two sets off to see if they could be matched; this time they were indexed with Lestrade's MIT code, so they automatically got bumped up the priority queue. Perhaps an hour would be sufficient.

In the meantime, he looked at the wood, running his fingertips along the smooth edges. The inside of the frame seemed remarkably dust-free. And there was something odd about it. He looked at it suspiciously, but nothing appeared to be amiss. Then he put his nose right up to inside of the wood, and realised what it was- it was  _new_. It smelled like new wood, just recently cut into shape. The colour on the inside was also too bright; not enough oxidation. No matter how well taped and glassed a watercolour was, there would be some exposure to oxygen and air pollution over the quarter century since the painting had been re-framed. He stopped his examination just long enough to send an e mail to the Clore Gallery curator at the Tate Britain, asking them to send over another watercolour framed at the same time as the Great Falls of the Riechenbach. He knew, though, it would confirm his suspicions. This was not the frame that the painting had been in before it got to the auction house.  _So, why a 'fake' frame?_  Why would the original have been re-framed in the last year or so? Or, was this the right frame at all? Perhaps the thieves had stolen the painting in its frame, and left this in the container.  _Why?_  Why would someone go to that trouble? Surely, the empty security container would have been just as …empty of the important thing, the painting, whether the frame was there or not?

The question niggled all the way home to Baker Street. At this time of the very early morning, the taxi driver was bored and wanted to talk, but one abrupt "shut up; I'm thinking" was enough to get him the silence he needed for the rest of the journey. The driver didn't offer to help him get the three boxes out of the taxi either. He needed three trips up to lug the evidence up the seventeen stairs.

Sherlock changed into comfortable clothes, fixed himself another coffee and stretched out on the sofa. A moment later, he sat up and fished in the side table for the nicotine patches.  _Definitely a three patch problem._

At seven thirty the next morning John came down and went straight into the kitchen to fix himself tea. When he came out into the living room, mug in hand, he nearly tripped over the box that had the frame in it.

"Dammit, Sherlock. Put up a flag or something if you're going to clutter up the living room with evidence!"

From his recumbent position, Sherlock could not be bothered to reply. John just stared, and then went back down the hall towards the bathroom, muttering, "might as well talk to myself for all the good it does me."

Oddly enough, that was exactly what Sherlock was thinking. Talking to the John in his Mind Palace was at the moment much more productive than the real version now brushing his teeth and getting ready for work. Sherlock's avatar John was not  _judgmental_. He didn't criticise. Today was an exercise in getting to like the avatar; after all, he wouldn't be able to take the real one with him when the Moriarty plans bore fruit. Sherlock needed to build walls between him and the real Watson, walls that would protect the doctor from the Irishman.

When the real doctor came back down the hall twenty minutes later, he was showered, shaved and dressed. He pulled his coat from the peg and didn't stop except to say. "I'm pulling the day shift today; won't be back until five thirty." The door banged shut behind him. Sherlock registered his absence briefly before returning to his conversation in his Mind Palace.

_You know this is the only way forward. Moriarty will kill you in order to damage me._

_So, you admit that I have some value to you?_  The Watson in his Mind Palace was now standing in a corridor glaring at Sherlock with some annoyance.

_Of course, and that's precisely why I have to make sure you start keeping your distance in real life, which means me being what you so indelicately describe as 'obnoxious in the extreme.' So be an obedient avatar and let's get back to the case. I need to solve it rather spectacularly if it is to have the intended effect on Moriarty's ego._

A few hours later, Sherlock got up and spent the rest of the day plastering the wall behind the sofa with photographs from the crime scene, and the ID shots of the experts present at the preview, the key auction room staff, and various bits of scrawled notes on post its. He moved them around, changing relationships as he went, testing some deductive avenues. Unfortunately, most proved to be blind alleys. The one bright spark of light in the afternoon came when the Clore Gallery delivered another watercolour by Turner, confirming his hypothesis that the frame left in the auction house's box was a new one.  He was so sure even before looking that he kept the messenger there during the examination, so he could return it immediately. 

Sherlock was balancing the lap top on his knees, watching CCTV footage of the vault when the front door banged open and Watson came up the stairs. The trudge in his step told Sherlock what sort of day the doctor had endured, even before he opened his mouth. As John took off his coat, he eyed the wall.

"Made a lot of progress, have you?"

The tinge of sarcasm was not lost on Sherlock, who replied "Actually, yes I have."

"Care to share?"

"Nope." He didn't look up from the screen.

A few moments later, John gave up and went into the kitchen, preparing himself a microwave meal. He pointedly did not offer Sherlock one. When the timer pinged, the doctor took his plate out and sat in his chair, angling it so he could watch the TV. Some current affairs programme came on, as Sherlock tried to concentrate on the CCTV footage of the four hours when the painting was on display. He was looking for any tell-tale clues amongst the professionals that their interest was in larceny more than a proper bid.

At some point, Sherlock realised that the drone of the TV in the background had switched to a different channel. Something with a laughter sound track. It was annoying.

"Can you use the headphones, please? Synthetic hilarity is not amusing."

John sighed and got up. Then he sighed again. "Yeah, well, you'll have to get the blasted things down off the bison skull for me. I can't reach. Why the hell you have to put them up there, I'll never know."

Sherlock smirked. "I find it amusing."

John tilted his head, trying to figure out the meaning of Sherlock's comment.  _He'll decide it's me getting at his height. Wrong conclusion, John. But if it helps to stoke your annoyance, I won't correct you._ The taller man got up from the sofa and went over to the table, pulled out a chair to stand on so he could reach the headphones.

What he didn't expect was that John would take advantage of his absence to look at the footage on Sherlock's laptop.

"Wow- I mean that's just  _riveting stuff_ \- CCTV recordings of a room with a load of boxes in it. It's not like there's any conversation or something that you actually need to hear. Why should a bit of my telly disturb your viewing pleasure? I just don't get it."

Sherlock handed him the headphones and headed back to the sofa.

"So, what's going on? What are you looking for?"

"Art- remember, John? You don't like art cases. Too boring for you. No opportunities to show off your medical skills or run around with a gun. Not likely to feature on your blog either. So, I won't bother explaining."

A little hurt, John asked "What happened to the idea that you'd be lost without your blogger?"

"I'm not lost anymore; I found my own map."

That provoked a little huff from John, who turned on his heel and marched back to his chair, jabbing the headphone socket into the TV screen. As he sat down, he tried one last time. "So all that stuff you spouted outside the Cross Keys about me being a conductor of light was just hot air? Sherlock, my blogging about your cases attracts attention and that means clients. Or have you somehow deleted that fact from your Mind Palace?"

Sherlock picked up the laptop and poured himself back onto the sofa. "That was then. This is now. Have you actually looked at your blog recently? The cases that Mycroft is letting through are being purposefully chosen to annoy me."

"What do you mean?" He sounded offended.

"Come on, John. Even you can see his hand behind the requests about lost dogs, marital infidelities and domestic burglaries. There's even one about a missing gym bag." He put all the disgust he could into his tone.

He knew that John would take offence at this. His comment was designed to reinforce the doctor's belief that Sherlock thought of him and the blog as merely a pipeline for cases, and when they dried up because Mycroft was filtering them, then the consulting detective was no longer interested in working with John. That would seriously annoy his flatmate. Sherlock counted it down,  _three…two…one…_

"Need I remind you that Henry Knight got around your brother by simply showing up here…because of my blog, thank you very much." The tone was half way between defensive and peevish.

 _Time to rub salt into the wound_. "Oh, and that ended just so well for everyone concerned, didn't it? Your problem is that you harbour grudges, John. You're still blaming me for drugging you, when in fact it wasn't the sugar; you did it yourself by going into that room."

John snapped back. "Motive, Sherlock. You  _intended_  to drug me; that's what counts. And, I won't be holding back that fact from my write up on the blog. People should know the lengths to which you will go to solve a case. Might even spark someone else to show up on the doorstep."

"Mycroft will have figured a way to close that loophole. Nothing more is likely to come from your blog."

"So, where the hell did your current case come from? If not the Met, then it had to be from the blog."

"I have my own sources now."

That shut john up. He put the headphones on and didn't say another word all evening.

Before he returned to thinking about the case, Sherlock loitered for a moment in the anteroom of his Mind Palace. His John avatar was standing there, arms crossed, scowling at him.

Sherlock gave a mental shrug.  _Don't blame me. This is for your own good. If you think that the only reason I tolerate you is because your blog brought me cases, it will be easier for you to think the worst of me. And you need to think the worst of me; it's all part of the plan._

He couldn't say that he liked this very much. When they were not working on a case together, the cohesion that pulled them together wasn't as strong. And Sherlock was beginning to realise that he would miss … cohesion.

He almost flinched at the realisation and then dismissed it as sentiment. He skewered the avatar with a look.  _You're as addicted as I am to the adrenaline and danger of case work; just think of this as withdrawal. Nobody likes the process, John, but you will be better for getting past it. As I have to get past my needing you._ If he could beat cocaine, then withdrawing from a flatmate should be a dawdle.

The CCTV footage of the viewing was replaying on his laptop while this mental dialogue was going on, and something caught his eye. He paused and the re-wound the recording.

Rachel Harmon was talking to Doctor Joyce Townsend, the senior Conservation Officer at the Tate Britain. He wondered if her presence meant the Tate was thinking about making a bid. That made him realise that the painting on the wall behind the pair had to be the real thing. There is no way that Townsend wouldn't spot a fake. And she'd know the frames, too.  _So the switch occurred between the auction room and the vault._ Which meant that the two technicians, Simkins and Farwell, were now prime suspects, and Sachs and Harmon were definitely in the frame as co-conspirators.  _Why would the auction house allow _ _the painting to be stolen?_


	3. Chapter 3

At 8 am the following morning, Sherlock climbed the steps up to the main entrance of the impressive office building in the City of London. It was across Lime Street from Lloyds of London, the hub of the international insurance world. He had an appointment with Ark Underwriting Team that specialised in Fine Art. Martin Pederson was the senior underwriter providing insurance cover to museums, corporate collections and private owners – including Sotheby's. His colleague, Tricia Douglas, was managing the team investigating the claim likely to be made following the theft.

He was given an ID badge with his photo on it, taken at the front desk and laminated into the plastic swipe card in seconds. Sherlock saw that the technology used was the same as used in airports to manage border entries- retinal identification was automatic. He made a mental note to hack their system and remove his file. Then a secretary who did not bother to introduce herself collected him and took him up to the seventh floor. He was ushered into a plush corner office overlooking Lime Street and the striking architecture of the Lloyds of London building across the street. The office did not whisper as much as shout the authority of its occupier, who was now seated behind his ridiculously large but conspicuously empty desk.

After introductions and the necessary ritual of being offered and Sherlock refusing the obligatory coffee, the man got down to business. "Mister Holmes, I understand from Rachel Harmon that you are…assisting… the police on the theft of the Turner watercolour." The man's slight hesitation when mentioning the word was meant to convey scepticism, and Sherlock noted it. Martin Pederson was in his mid-forties, with very short hair. A smart suit, but not in the same league as his banking equivalent would be; insurance was not as well-paid. Nor did it suit particularly ambitious people. The man was now eying Sherlock as if he were some sort of exotic creature.

His colleague was rather different. A decade younger, she wore the uniform of the professional City woman, a grey suit and black heels. Not too flash or revealing; more corporate and reassuring. She was sitting in the chair beside him. Sherlock instantly deduced that she was team's Fine Art specialist, not long out of university, where her PHD would have been on some obscure financial issues surrounding a particular niche in the fine art market. She was ambitious, and compared with her other Fine Art graduate peers scrabbling for a junior position in a gallery or museum she would be considered very well paid.

Tricia Douglas asked the obvious question that Pederson was rather hinting at. "So, who are you and why does the Met think you could be any help in recovering the stolen property?"

Sherlock tilted his head, listened to her accent and looked at her for a moment before replying. "I'm a consulting detective. The Police call me in when they don't understand something, which is remarkably frequent. As to how I can help on this occasion, well, perhaps I can because unlike you, I'm not an expert in nineteenth century Spanish sculpture- which is totally irrelevant to this case. Or, perhaps it is because I am the person who exposed the 'lost' Vermeer as a fake last year, after countless others had authenticated it. And if that isn't enough to qualify me, then as a chemist, I will be more suspicious of pigments, paper, and brush stroke techniques than you are. Enough to know something that you either haven't yet realised, or haven't told the auction house, not to mention the police, about- the fact that the frame left in the security box isn't the original. It's a fake."

She exchanged glances with Pederson, who nodded. "Yes, we'd just come to that conclusion yesterday, after spending time at the crime scene the day before."

"So, why haven't you  _shared_  your conclusions?"

The young woman was quick to reply. "Obviously, the fact puts the auction house in an awkward position. We think that the two technicians are the likely suspects to have made the switch- the container with the real painting goes out of the room, another different container is deposited in the vault, only it's empty."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as if he couldn't bear to look at her. "Then why include a fake frame? It would have been simpler and less risky to leave it completely empty. The frame was bound to be discovered as a fake and cast suspicion exactly where you now think it lies."

"Perhaps they aren't as clever at this as they thought. Maybe they thought they could get away with it." She shrugged.

Sherlock sighed. "You're not  _listening_. " His fingers tapped an impatient tattoo on the chair arm. "The two technicians have worked for the company for years. There is nothing in their background to suggest that they would have thought of something so big. Oh yes, pilfering takes place, even in a house as old as this one, but it's almost always in small object'd'art, or coins- easily hidden, even easier to sell on the black market. The value is good, but not enough to attract a lot of attention. A Turner watercolour fits none of that description."

Pederson exchanged looks with Douglas. "We came to that conclusion this morning, just before you got here."

Sherlock continued, "So the two most likely suspects are the head of sale, and the head of security- both of whom were in the presence of the container on its journey between the sale room and the vault. If they were stupid- and they're not- then they would have not even thought of putting the new empty frame in there. This isn't stupidity- it's malice of forethought, which suggests that there is more than one party involved in this."

Pederson looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"I suspect that the theft was originally planned around a simple switch, but someone planted the fake frame to implicate the auction house. The fact that the person managing the sale is particularly annoyed at the loss is revealing. Deduction suggests that the auction house was involved in the theft, but something went wrong. The empty container is now found to have evidence in it that implicates the house. Ergo- a third party is involved, one that would like the auction house to carry the blame. And they probably have the painting now, which upsets the auction house even more, because it was their plan to steal it and sell it themselves."

Pederson swallowed, visibly. "That's…quite a leap."

Sherlock smirked. "That's the beauty of deduction. The balance of probabilities is enough to go on. If it had gone according to plan then the auction house would have used the insurance to satisfy the owner by handing over the guide price. But, instead of their measly commission cut on a normal sale, they hoped to sell the stolen painting on to a private client, pocketing the sale price, which would be ten times the value of their lost commission. Now that's the real definition of a win-win."

Douglas replied coldly, "Not from our point of view."

Sherlock waved his hand in a desultory fashion. "In principle, of course you are right. But, you will have hedged the risk amongst other underwriting syndicates, so the loss will be less than it appeared on paper." He looked pointedly over Pederson's shoulder at the Lloyds building. "If I can't recover the painting, then other shoulders will be carrying the burden, as well as yours."

Douglas intervened. "Where's the evidence?"

"At this stage, I don't need evidence. The trouble is that even knowing that Harmon and Sachs are probably the people behind the theft, we are no nearer recovery than we were before we knew- because they don't have the painting. The question that is really worth asking is whether they know who actually does have the painting. "

Pederson was shaking his head. "Even if they did, it sure wouldn't be in their interest to confess it."

Sherlock just snorted. "You need to stop thinking about the small fish. I can get the evidence of how Harmon and Sachs orchestrated the switch. That's easy. They have motive- trying to keep their jobs. But putting them behind bars won't get the painting back, because someone has stolen it from them- taken it right from out of under their noses. This second thief is pretty clever. Left a fake frame just to drive home the point that he was framing them for the crime." He smirked. "Actually, it's  _very_ clever."

Pederson was scowling all the way through this deductive stream from Sherlock. Wearily, he admitted, "Then we're probably never going to recover it. That means we will have to pay out. You may think we've offloaded the risk, but there is more to this than just the money. There is reputation, too. We can't outsource that. We will have to drop the auction house from our client list. They brought in fee income worth millions, but our backers won't touch them with a barge pole from now on. That's  _far_  more painful than a single theft claim."

"Leave this with me. I have an idea, but it's going to take some work. And, it's going to take some …creative accounting on your part."

"What's that mean?" The insurer's suspicious tone was matched by the look on Tricia Douglas' face.

Sherlock smirked and then he leaned forward in his chair, his posture assuming an almost predatory stance. "July 28th, 1994- Light and Colour, Shade and Darkness."

Beside him the young woman flinched. "That wasn't us. Those were insured by Hiscox."

"But the principle's the same. You know as well as I do that the real thief- the one that stole The Great Falls from Harmon and Sachs-will have been working for a very special kind of buyer. This isn't a Hollywood film, no dramatic cat burglars with a love of art. This is the acquisition of a portable asset whose value appreciates over time. In short, the prefect means for a criminal cartel to avoid money laundering issues. The two Turners stolen in Germany in 1994 ended up in the hands of organised crime and it took  _eight years_  to get them back. In the end, the Tate Gallery made itself a tidy profit of 20 million euros, because they were paid by the insurers but still managed to get the paintings back themselves, by spending money. They called it 'commission'; we all know it was ransom money*. If I can find the painting, will you buy it back, or do you want to lose everything?"

Pederson looked shocked. Douglas was trying to put together in her mind what Sherlock had just proposed. "You're  _volunteering_  to be the go-between? To find the actual end buyer and get it back? Why would you do that? Are you going to demand a commission?" She was now eying Sherlock with suspicion.

Sherlock ignored her, but kept his gaze on the man. "I'm a consulting  _detective,_  Mister Pederson, but I don't take payment. No finder's fee, no reward, no nothing. Just your commitment to produce the money needed to buy it back when I do get in front of the person who has it. And, don't worry. I know that the value of the painting on the open market is worth far, far more than the owner is able to value it as a stolen item. So, a sum well below your insurance pay-out is what will be needed from you. And you will need to move quickly when I contact you again."

The man across the desk took a deep breath. He looked out of the window at the elevators crawling up the outside of the extraordinary architecture of the Lloyds Building.

When he turned back to look at Sherlock, his decision had been made. "Stay in touch." He reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. He then wrote on the back of it. "This is my private e mail and mobile number. Day or night, doesn't matter. I don't want to lose the painting, the client, the profits or our reputation. That's a lot riding on you, Mister Holmes. Do you really think you can deliver?"

Sherlock gave him his client smile. "Oh,  _yes._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world of art insurance is a murky one- and the paying of ransom is more common than one might think. The story mentioned by Sherlock of the two Turner masterpieces, Light & Colour and Shade & Darkness, is true.


	4. Chapter 4

Rachel Harmon threw her keys into the glass bowl on the slim table in the hallway of her flat. She could always tell what sort of day she'd had by the sound it made. A gentle chime of metal on glass equalled a good day. Tonight, she wondered whether this might be the occasion when the crystal shattered from the force of the throw. She kicked off her shoes and tossed her Prada briefcase down before heading into the kitchen and the half full bottle of chardonnay that was hiding in her fridge. The way she was feeling, it wouldn't be that way for long. As she poured herself a large glass, she realised that she must have left the living room light on last night and not noticed it this morning, because she could see that it was definitely on now.

As she came around the kitchen door into the living room, she caught sight of a dark figure bent over her desk. The scream came seconds before the sound of the wine glass hitting the fashionable stone tiled floor.

"I wouldn't attract the attention of the police right now if I was in your position, so you might want to tone down the noise." This was uttered in a quiet baritone by the man who did not even bother to turn around at the commotion occurring behind him.

She realised that she recognised the voice, and the coat. "What the  _hell_  are  _you_  doing in my flat?!"

That did make him turn around. This time Sherlock's smile was genuine. "I'm trying to find out to whom you  _thought_  you were going to sell the painting, and who actually stole it from you once you'd done the hard work."

Her eyes widened with shock.

"Relax, Miss Harmon. If I wanted you to be arrested, then the police would be here rather than me." He gestured to her right. "Sit down on your sofa. Either be quiet and let me continue to work, or you can save us both some time and tell me the truth."

She stepped around the shards of broken glass and backed down onto the sofa, not taking her eyes off Sherlock. She seemed paralysed with shock.

He removed the blue latex gloves with a final snap and peered down at her. "You are not a professional at this, Miss Harmon, but you have been sensible enough not to leave any obviously incriminating information on your home laptop. I rather doubt that you would be so reckless as to have done so on the tablet that is in your briefcase; that, after all, could have been seized by the police when they investigated the crime scene."

Sherlock turned back to the laptop on the desk, and sat down again.

"It's password protected."

He chuckled. "Why do people think that can really stop someone who is determined to gain entry?"

"There's nothing on it." This was uttered with some heat. "You can't prove anything. And breaking into my flat- that's not allowed. You won't be able to use anything in court."

He turned around to look at her again, with a puzzled smile. "Why do you think I want to go to court?"

" _WHO ARE YOU?"_ Fear crept into the words, pulling at the edges of hysteria.

"You know who I am. You just don't know why I am here, so let me make it simple enough to get through your panic. You and the rest of the London staff have been told by the bosses in New York that you have to improve your performance or the auction room will be closed. You and your head of security cooked up a scheme to steal the Turner watercolour, claim on the insurance, and then sell it to a private buyer- much more lucrative than the commission you would have earned, and it would have closed the revenue shortfall on your performance target. Only trouble was, someone else realised what you were doing and stole it from you. You can hardly report him to the police. My question is, do you know who the second thief was?"

She took in what he was saying, and then her face crumpled. "No," she whispered. "I wish I did, because if I ever catch up with him, I'll roast him alive." She looked close to tears.

"Save the waterworks. I know you aren't a hardened criminal. Don't bother telling me that you did it to help others. I'm not interested in any self-justification or moral hand-wringing. It's all irrelevant. But if it helps you to tell the truth, then I should tell you that I have today delayed the insurance company from telling the police to arrest you and Sachs."

Now her eyes widened again. "Why would you do that?"

He huffed and turned back to the computer. "Because all I care about is getting the painting back. And arresting you won't do that. Wasting time to gather evidence to put you and Sachs in jail won't do that either. I'll leave it to the police, if you aren't co-operative. So, tell me what I need to know."

She was struggling with the idea, too scared to believe him.

What little patience Sherlock had snapped. "Oh, let me help you on the way. It's not difficult. I've hacked your Facebook account and spotted that your best friend when you were doing your PHD at University of London Goldsmiths was Yelena Yumasheva. She's from  _Krasnoya Selo_. Idiots might not know that it's six kilometres from St Petersburg, and filled with the summer dachas of the Russian mafia. I know better, and I suspect, so do you. Or was this whole thing her idea?"

He could see her shocked expression reflected in the mirror on the wall over the desk. He let the silence lengthen.  _Never push a suspect before they are ready to fall, John. And give them something to contradict you. I've told you before- they love to tell you that you are wrong more than they will admit you are right._

"Oh, God; don't drag poor Yelena into this. It's not her fault, and she's had nothing to do with it."

"Forgive me, Miss Harmon, if I don't believe you." He looked up and caught her eye in the mirror, not for the first time realising how useful it was to observe someone's reaction via a reflection. There was something about the reversed symmetry that made emotions underlying facial features more evident to him.

He delivered his second hammer blow. "You see, most police wouldn't know what they are looking for. They wouldn't understand the Russian conventions of _otchestvo,_ or patronymic naming. Your best friend uses her mother's surname on all the documentation, probably because she was a mistress rather than a wife. But on Facebook, you call her  _Barsu_. That's short for  _Barsukovna_ , which links her to her father, who is a serious player in the  _Solntsevskaya Bratva_  in St Petersburg. I believe he is brother of Vladimir Kumarin, also known as Barsukov. He founded the Tambov gang. The  _Tambovskaya_  would certainly know what to do with the painting." He gave her a knowing grin. "You see, it's not difficult if you know what you are looking for. All I need from you is whether you approached her, or the other way around."

Rachel had lifted her hand to her face, and now she just closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "She's my  _best friend._  Do you have any idea what you are asking me to do?"

For a moment, her question derailed Sherlock's deductive flow.  _Best friend? No, I don't really understand that concept. It's not like I have more than one._  He shook his head to remove the image of John that had come into his mind.  _Back in your box. This is an art case, remember? You don't like art cases._

"Just tell me, Miss Harmon." If the question sounded a little tetchy, it was because he really didn't want to waste any more time on her emotions.

She sighed. " _I_  approached  _her_. Of course, I know who her real father is. He's the one who funded her degree in London. Her dissertation was on Faberge eggs as an example of French colonial aesthetics. She now works at the Hermitage. And she's not a thief. _"_

"I didn't say she was," he replied. "But there is a reason why the Russian Mafia is called  _the ory v zakone_. 'Thieves-in-law' explains so well how the organised crime networks rely on family relationships. She would know who would be a suitable buyer, and help you set it up. It's no coincidence that you spent last Christmas in Russia. Your TripAdvisor browser history was just… so revealing."

Rachel sighed. Then she got up and went into the kitchen, returning moments later with a dustpan and brush, as well as paper towels. "What happens next?" Down on her knees, she started to clean up the mess of the broken glass and wine.

"Have you told her about the second theft?" Sherlock's plans hinged on her answer; he could handle either possibility, but one would be more likely to yield results than the other.

The brushing stopped. "No. I haven't the heart. We're due to meet tomorrow night. Sotheby's thinks I am going to talk to one of our private collectors; he wants to sell a Kandinsky and I've found a private buyer." Then she rocked back on her bare heels and looked at him suspiciously. "But you knew the last bit anyway- you would have spotted the e ticket in my e mails."

"Hmmm….of course, but if she thinks you are bringing the painting, then that is different from having to do penance for losing it."

He was unconsciously rolling a pen he'd found on the desk through the fingers of his left hand. It helped him focus and make the decision. "Send her a private message- tell her that you can't come, because the police investigation is demanding you stay. Tell her you are sending me. Ask her to meet me at the Pulkova airport arrivals hall. Take a photo of me with your phone now and send it to her so she will recognise me. I've taken a copy of one of your Facebook photos of her- I find the tagging system  _so_  useful for this sort of work."

She obliged, going to rescue her phone from her handbag in the hall. "Why do you want to talk to her? Without the painting, nothing will happen."

"There are three possibilities. The first is simple- the people to whom you intended selling this decided it was just easier to steal it themselves. If that's so, then I can negotiate a ransom and recover it. Your friend can make the necessary introductions and disappear into the background.

"The second possibility is that another thief took the opportunity when they saw it. That would imply they knew something was happening in advance, which raises interesting questions that need answering. One of those is whether your friend might have knowingly or unknowingly passed information onto someone who could do such a thing. So, again, a conversation with her is the first step. If she is an innocent as you suggest, then she needs to be careful because she will be seen by the thief as a loose end to be tied up. For her own protection, she needs to talk to me."

Rachel re-appeared and took the photo on her camera. "if you think she is at risk, you will tell her, won't you? I owe her that much. What's the third possibility?"

"That the thief had absolutely nothing to do with your friend or Russia. The weight of the evidence suggests otherwise, but it is nevertheless possible. But only by talking to her and her contacts will I be able to deduce if it is a blind alley." He closed her laptop and swiveled the desk chair around on its castors so he could watch her cleaning.

"One last question, Miss Harmon. Was the actual method of swapping the containers your idea?"

She finished her brushing, stood up and went into the kitchen. Sherlock heard the clatter of broken glass going into the rubbish bin, then a cupboard being opened and closed, followed by the refrigerator door doing the same. A few moments later, she came back into the room carrying another rather fuller glass of white wine.

"I'm not going to offer you one." She sounded resentful.

"That's good, because I would have refused. Alcohol dulls the senses. If I am to recover this painting, then I will need all my faculties functioning at top efficiency. Especially if it involves the Russian mafia who have an unfortunate reputation of shooting first, and asking questions later, but only if you've survived the shooting. That's part of the reason why you've been afraid to tell Barsu, because of what they might do to her…or you."

She sipped her wine. Sherlock could tell even at his distance that the wine was a New World Chardonnay, probably Australian, given the amount of oak he could detect on the nose. Certainly not to his taste, even if he had wanted to indulge. As Mycroft was wont to say, the New World had no idea how to use barrel age to add complexity and character to wine.

"Before answering your question, I want to know what's in it for me."

He thought about it for a moment. "I don't condone theft, Miss Harmon. But it isn't a matter for me what happens in the UK justice system. I expect that the owners, the Tate, and the insurers are all more concerned with recovering it, rather than the mechanics of who was involved. And, in any case, the only thing you are guilty of committing is a failed attempt to steal it. My task is to recover the painting from the person who actually stole it. If you have any idea who the third parties are behind this theft, then I need to know. It will help to find the people who are currently holding the painting."

"What will you do when you find them?"

"Offer them a ransom, which they will accept because it is better than the asset of the painting."

She took another long sip of the wine. Perhaps because the alcohol was relaxing her a bit, she gave the first smile of the evening. "Well, I guess I don't have anything to lose. You have the capacity to destroy my career. All I can do is hope that you decide not to reveal how the trail started."

She put the wine down on the side table and folded her hands in her lap. "When I realised that selling the painting ourselves would be the only way I and the rest of the London team could stay employed, I thought about how it could be achieved. But, you're right, Mister Holmes; I'm not an expert at this. So I did what I always do when I need an expert's opinion. I went to a consultant."

For a moment, it seemed to Sherlock that time slowed to a crawl. He watched the word leaving her lips in slow motion.  _Consultant?...OH, consulting criminal! Oh, Elizabeth!_  He had not expected Moriarty's fingerprints to be quite so visible, so soon in the case. He had asked her for cases that had some trace, if they were to do the job they needed to do, but the thrill of discovery left him both exhilarated and chilled to the bone at one and the same moment.

He roused himself and time returned to its normal speed. "Who?" He tried to make it sound innocent.

"Well, I never did get a name. That's the whole point. If someone is going to give me the blueprint to do a crime, they're hardly going to invoice me with a proper name and business address, are they? The business was conducted online."

That made Sherlock spin around and open the laptop.

"No, not there. I borrowed Sachs' daughter's tablet, and used a lot of anonymous accounts. We communicated via Snapchat."

He huffed and closed the laptop. "What was the fee, if I may be so bold?"

"Ten percent commission on the estimated private sale price, in advance. I was happy to pay that amount. The plan seemed fool proof."

"And it was, until the container was opened up and you realised that it didn't have the real painting in it."

She shook her head. "Actually, it  _looked_  right at the start. There was a frame and a painting in it- looked good to the casual inspection Sachs gave it that night. Of course, he's no expert. When I looked at it properly the next morning, I realised it was a fake. The container in the vault was supposed to be empty. When they found the fake frame in it, I knew we were well and truly stuffed." The strain of keeping up appearances over the past three days since the theft showed on her face. "To be honest, I have been at wit's end trying to figure out what to do. Sachs was the only one who knew the plan apart from me; the two boys, Simkins and Fawell, don't know that a switch was made- it was brilliantly clever. I'd have never thought of it in a million years."

"Not that clever, Miss Harmon. I knew yesterday when I walked the journey the painting took from the viewing room to the vault."

She looked askance.

He sniffed. "Simple distraction. It works every time. Your two technicians put the original in its security case and carried it to the lift lobby, set it down and pressed the call button. I presume Sachs accompanied them and was standing to the left. Beside him, there is a window with floor to ceiling drapes, behind which the other empty new case was waiting. Then you came into the corridor and distracted their attention, making them look away, maybe even move a few steps in your direction, away from the lift. While they did so, Sachs swapped the cases, leaving the real one behind the curtains."

She looked amazed. "Yes. I did. I faked tripping over my heels and falling. Simkins is such a gentleman, he rushed down the corridor and hauled me to my feet while Farwell picked up the papers that I dropped on the floor. How did you figure this out?"

He shrugged. "It's what I would have done. Trouble is, while waiting for you to come to the lift, the empty case would be unsupervised behind the curtain- which allowed a third party to put the fake frame in it. And, when Sachs escorted the men with the fake down to the vault, the case with the original would be unsupervised again.  _You_  could hardly walk away with it- not your role to be handling the sale items, but Sachs could get away with that. That gave the thief the opportunity to swap it for the version Sachs collected when he came back up. So, whoever took it  _knew_  your plan. And that rather incriminates your consultant, doesn't it." This was not said as a question, but rather a firm conclusion.

She swore. "The saying is true then; there is no honour amongst thieves. There's no way I can point the finger at the consultant- I have no evidence of just who the hell he is. And even if I did, to go after him would mean I'd have to admit I was the one who planned the theft in the first place." She took another sip of the wine. "I've been wondering whether to make the trip to St Petersburg one way- just throw myself on Barsu's doorstep and say, 'hide me; pack me off to the Gulag.'"

Sherlock smiled- this time it was genuine. "Leave it to me; no need to contemplate a Siberian exile just yet."


	5. Chapter 5

"Perhaps the consulting criminal got a better offer."

Sherlock was standing in the office of Boris Barsukova. He'd just explained to the  _obshcshak_  of the Tambov  _bratva_  why he had not delivered the painting as anticipated. The presence of two bodyguards behind him was meant to feel threatening- a show of force to intimidate the English visitor.

The Russian looked at him, his face a slab of meat that betrayed nothing of what he might have been thinking. With a girth swollen by too many multicourse banquets, and a nose that bore the hallmarks of a serious Vodka drinker, Barsukova looked every inch the part of a Russian mafia man. The man's suit was not new, but had been expensive when it was first bought. It was showing some of its age, a bit like its wearer. Boris was a big man, in sharp contrast to his daughter Yelena. The Facebook photo tagged on Rachel Harmon's page had not prepared Sherlock for how petite the Russian woman was when he had met her at Pulkova airport.

When he had explained what had happened in London, she was nearly paralysed with shock- and fear. He didn't need to be a detective to deduce that one. "You staked your reputation on her, didn't you?"

"Rachel…" Yelena sat on the sofa in her modern furnished flat on s cross street of Vasilevsky Island not far from the St Petersburg Academy of Fine Arts. She was crying, spoiling her make-up. "Rachel said it was fool-proof. She said she'd got the best advice possible. Мой Бог, she  _paid_  for it, too. A loan secured on her flat. And now she has nothing to show for it. She'll lose her home, her job. Oh my poor любимая." Her tears ran down her face, without shame. It contrasted sharply with the professional clothing, the smart décor of the apartment. Yelena was a beautiful woman who loved beautiful things. This was a Russian who wanted to look good, who took care to project an image of respectability.

Sherlock remained stony-faced. "I am more concerned about what the buyer is going to do…possibly to you."

"My father will…" She ran out of words for a moment, then re-started. "He won't be angry with me, and he will protect me. I am his дорогая маленькая девушка, his darling little girl. He doesn't want me to know about what he does, likes to pretend that he is a legitimate business man. But I am not a fool; I know what he does. So I went to him to help Rachel. When he learns that the plan has not worked, well, no matter- he hasn't lost anything, so why would he be upset?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You  _have_  led a sheltered life. This is a matter of honour. Someone has interfered with a transaction that he would have agreed to because it suited the needs of the  _bratva._  We need to tell him and find out who might have stolen it."

Now standing in the man's office, it was the second question Yelena's father had asked. The first had been more brutal: "Who are you to be the bearer of bad news? Men have died doing such a thing."

"Я - охотник . A man who wants to take the painting back to its owners. Someone has stolen it to insult your organisation. And they need to be punished. If you have ideas about who would want to do this, then I need to know."

He had started the conversation in fluent Russian, but Barsukov cut him off. "Stop. I speak English- learned in New York, dodging the Odessa boys of Brighton Beach. I don't get enough opportunity these days to speak it, so we use it now. Besides the  _byki_  behind you don't speak English and I want to keep this conversation about my daughter private."

Sherlock decided to play on his obvious affection. "Yelena- I am worried that she might be at risk if the thief who did take it knows about her role."

Boris eyed him suspiciously. "I regret you involved her to arrange this meeting. I regret her involvement in this whole business. I didn't waste money educating Yelena in London for her to be trapped in the Tambov as some  _bratva_  wife. She should escape all this. I did not want to help her find a buyer for this painting at first; she needs to be kept out of such things, kept pure. It was only with  _utmost_  reluctance that I agreed to do this. But she insisted that her friend needed her help, so I told her that I would buy this painting for her, to spare her contact with anyone in the bratva; it could hang on her wall to remind her of her time in England."

Sherlock decided that flattery might get him somewhere. "And, as a good father, you could not refuse your own daughter."

"Tell me your story, Englishman."

Sherlock explained how the painting had been stolen according to the plans of the criminal that Rachel Harmon had consulted. And then how the real painting had been stolen again, leaving his daughter's friend to carry the responsibility for the loss. That prompted the mafia treasurer's second question. "You suspect this consultant. Why would he do such a thing?"

That was when Sherlock explained that it was likely that the consultant had received a better offer for the painting. "Who do you think would make such an offer?"

Boris's answer was instantaneous. "Perhaps an enemy. Perhaps someone wanted to leave a message. The painting itself is irrelevant." Barsukov gestured to a pair of chrome and leather chairs. "Sit. I must consider this."

Sherlock sat. Then Boris was off. "The painting is not important, really. I know, I know…" he gave a crocodile smile to the consulting detective. "It is useful at times to have assets that are not in cash, not subject to currency fluctuations, money laundering regulations and scrutiny by the authorities. It wouldn't have been the first such item in our possession. There are others worth much more, hidden away from public view. This water thing by Turner is not valuable enough. This thieving is hardly a provocation. We have much bigger problems than a thief."

Sherlock nodded. "You are in dispute with the authorities and with rivals."

Boris snorted, "Authorities? There is no such thing in Russia. The police, the municipal government- everyone is a servant of the powerful man who can buy them. And there are too many powerful factions."

A pair of grey green eyes locked with the man's red-rimmed bleary eyes. It was before lunch but he could smell the alcohol on the man's breath- even across the wide expanse of desk between them. "And the Tambov are no longer one of them."

The big man shrugged an acknowledgement. "The price is too high for us. For the moment we are in eclipse. We are forced to hide like rats, scurry for cover in the darkness." He moved his fingers across the surface of his desk like a rodent. "My brother is the  _Krestnii Otets_  but he's rotting in a high security jail in Moscow. The friends of Putin who are members of the Ozero condo control the legal system, so Vasiley goes to prison for fifteen years. While we wait for the tide to turn our rivals now feel free to muscle in on our business. Even our legitimate businesses are harassed by the authorities. Everything, everyone is corrupt and chasing the tail of Putin's men so they can crawl up their backsides."

"In this climate, we cannot prosper, but must pretend we are weak and not a threat to anyone. We are good citizens. But our mother, God rest her soul, was a clever woman. She taught us that as long as there is life, then success will return. We've had trouble before and recovered. Now, we keep our head down, let the oligarchs fight among themselves for a while."

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin while the Russian explained his faction's strategy. "So while you watch from the side-lines, why would someone steal this painting?"

Boris sniffed. "It's worth what on the open market- maybe six million US? As stolen goods, it can serve as collateral for about fifteen to twenty percent of that- so no more than a half million. That's small change to these people. Even _I_  can afford this. When you run Gazprom or SoGaz as your private fiefdom, you are billionaires and you run the city, even the federal system to siphon money from the taxpayers straight into your own private bank. No little splash of water paint means anything to these people. They wear million dollar watches- this art of yours is not like a trophy palace, a yacht – not worth fighting over." The big man started to shake his head. " _Nyet_ , this is too little. Probably some  _Boyevik_  trying to win favour with a  _Pakhan_ , a way to become a V _or."_ He must have seen some confusion in the eyes of the English detective. "Fluent in Russian, I see, but not in the  _Vor v Zakone_."

Sherlock translated: " _Thief inside the Law_ …you think this theft is a rite of passage? Some young person in a  _Bratva_  trying to convince a higher up that they are worthy of promotion?"

"Hmm. Perhaps." Something had changed in the man's demeanour. "If you find who has the painting, what will you do?"

"Offer them an exchange. Cash, no questions. I can pay a ransom for what the painting is actually worth as stolen goods. The owners want it back, the insurers want it back, and the auction house needs to protect its reputation. In return, the person who has it now can be described as 'an anonymous Russian donor', who is giving the painting to the English people. Face is saved all round."

"And the English friend of my daughter- what happens to her?"

"Nothing has to happen, because she failed in her attempt to steal it. There is no need to drag her into this, if the parties concerned with the real theft were to stipulate that fact."

The big man went quiet for a moment. "You say you are a hunter. Your prey is this consultant criminal, yes?"

"Yes."

That provoked a smile. "This I can understand. He has done you some harm, so you wish to do the same to him."

"Yes."

"How will you do this harm?"

"By returning the painting to England, and unravelling his plans. He will know that I am behind the return, I will make sure of that fact."

Boris now flashed a knowing smile at Sherlock, opened a desk drawer and pulled out two shot glasses and a half full bottle of vodka. "A toast- to the hunt!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: The Tambovskaya exist, as does Vasiley Barsukov, who is in jail. The extent of the St Petersburg mafia and its connections to the Putin government (the Ozero Condo) and oligarchs who claim to be legitimate businessmen but who are known to be mafia …it's astonishing and unfortunately very real. Russian translations- I mix up anglicised spellings with the cyrillic. obshcshak = mafia treasurer; Мой Бог = My God; любимая = darling; Я - охотник = I am a hunter. byki = bodyguards; Pakhan = Russian mafia 'godfather', which is also called Krestnii Otets. Vor is the way to be promoted in the Mafia, by proving you are a thief to join the thieves-in-law. I have been told by native speakers that my Russian is atrocious- mea culpa- I am not one of the Holmes brothers.


	6. Chapter 6

"Here is your room key card, Mister Sigursson." As she handed it over, the pretty receptionist of the Belvedere Nevsky Hotel cast an appreciative eye over the tall blond man standing in front of the check-in desk.

"Cпасибо", he said in faultless Russian- but she noted that his thanks were offered in an accent that was devoid of any local or regional accent. Anyway, she knew for a fact that Lars was a Norwegian citizen; after all, she had just collected his passport so he could be registered with the police, as all foreign guests were. She watched as he walked to the lift lobby, pulling his businessman's carry-on wheeled suitcase. Given that most of the business men staying at the hotel were old, fat and ugly she gave herself some time to enjoy the view from behind of his broad shoulders, narrow waist and hips encased in a tasteful form fitting blue business suit. His plain wool coat was sensible, slung over his arm- it was cold in St Petersburg- but she wondered if the hat he was carrying would be warm enough. He would need a better one in this weather.

When Lars inserted the card in the door slot of 413 and it flashed green, he opened the door and rolled his case in. Almost the moment he shut and locked it, slipping the safety chain on, he wrenched the blond wig off and threw it onto the bed. Taking a deep breath in, he ruffled his matted dark hair and gave a sigh of relief. The wig had itched unbearably. If he was going to assume the alter ego for any length of time, he would need to dye his hair and lighten his eyebrows a bit- or go mad from the discomfort.

It had been almost torture to wear the wig on the flight from London. But necessary. The passport provided by Elizabeth Ffoukes along with the ticket was exactly what he requested- him with straight blond hair in a fringe covering his forehead above blue eyes. The new look seemed to take at least five years off his actual age, which fitted in with the documentary evidence in the file Sherlock passed to her at their meeting on the 35th floor of the Shard building in London.

At Heathrow he'd put on the wig and then donned a heavy coat favoured by businessmen. It annoyed him that he missed the comfort of his Belstaff, but it was far too recognisable these days. The bulky alternative and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses completed the disguise that stared back at him in the gent's in Terminal Five. The fellow passengers on the BA flight must have thought he had a bladder problem, as he kept having to get up and go to the loo every half hour of the three and half hour journey. As soon as the door shut, he would wrench the wretched hairpiece off and scratch.

Lars had removed the glasses and wig in another bathroom – this one at the Pulkova airport after leaving Russian passport control, so Yelena would recognise him as Sherlock from the photo sent to her by Rachel. It was  _useful_  to be two different people while in St Petersburg, and surprisingly easy to do.  _No Mycroft spying on my every move._  Elizabeth had helped on that score, too. She had told his brother that he was going overseas and to "back off the surveillance" or get into trouble about it with the Prime Minister. Sherlock found it almost exhilarating to be at liberty- on his own, able to take the next steps in the Moriarty plan without interference.

Once he left Barsukov's office, he relished the freedom to walk wherever he wanted without having to worry about CCTV, so it was on foot that he headed to his hotel. Twilight was just starting to fall on the central district along the Nevskey Prospekt. Lights in the shops and cafes, the restaurants and bars were starting to come on. He stopped at a café half way to the hotel to have a cup of tea and use their loo to put the wig back on under his hat, before going on to check in as Lars Sigursson.

He unpacked and opened his laptop, using the hotel wifi to tap into a certain ISP and a particular account. He'd cracked the password a month ago, and had been monitoring activity, including financial transactions.  _For a consulting criminal, the local man is remarkably naïve._ After almost an hour of study, Sherlock then rummaged in his carry-on bag for the burn phone that he had brought with him. Turning it on, he smiled as he thumbed the keypad to find the one and only phone number that he had pre-programmed in it while waiting for the plane to taxi to the terminal at Pulkova airport. It was the number for Viktor Kogan, the regional director of the RSPP, the Russian Union of Industrialists and Entrepreneurs. Well connected through his brother into the St Petersburg underworld, Viktor also happened to be Moriarty's man, handling the northern Russian side of the consultancy network.

Sherlock had not been entirely truthful when he spoke to Yelena and her father. He had another way of finding out who stole the Turner and to whom the painting was being sold. By assuming the role of the Norwegian, Lars Sigursson, he would have the ability to contact the man directly and find out for himself whether his suspicions were right.

As he heard the phone connecting the number, he began to rehearse the soft Norwegian accented voice of Sigursson.

"Да. Кто - это?" Viktor was suspicious because he didn't recognise the phone number.

"Sigursson. I'm here in St Petersburg and I need to see you. A problem, in fact, a mutual problem that can be solved to both our benefits." The slightest trace of a lisp was detectable in his voice.

"Oh."

Sherlock could deduce from the reply that the Russian wasn't all that keen, but on the other hand, did not want to cause offence to an operative of Moriarty's whose star was in the ascendant. The re-routing of arms, drugs and illegal trafficking from the southern route to the northern route had meant that Viktor and Lars had regular text, email and VOIP traffic over the past three months. But they had never met face-to-face. This would be a first, and in that simple "oh" exclamation, Sherlock deduced some concern.

Sherlock broke the silence. "Meet me at the Kofe Khauz on Nevsky Prospekt at 7pm. Tell no one about it. This has to be off the record."

"Why?" There was caution in the tone.

"Because your office has a leak and it's been noticed.  _HE_ will…not be pleased."

There was a sharp intake of breath.

oOo

Thirty minutes later, Viktor Kogan was now sitting across a table from the man he knew as Lars Sigursson, with the same anxious air hanging about him. He was sweating in the overheated room. The scent merged with the condensation and general fug caused by smokers. Viktor was a small thin man with a slightly pinched and hungry look. Sherlock couldn't figure out whether it was ambition or perhaps the realisation that he was never going to be quite as successful as his older brother. The café was a Russian attempt at a Starbuck's, which failed miserably. The tourists were drinking outrageously expensive imported coffee, but the locals, Sherlock included, were drinking tea from a samovar.

Viktor took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Lars. He must have seen his hesitation, because he giggled nervously. "It's different here from Norway- no pesky doctors to tell you that you can't smoke."

The blond thought about a particularly  _pesky doctor_  he knew, and felt his absence, perhaps too keenly. As he reached for the cigarette, he heard John's voice in his head.  _Don't. Just don't pretend that it's all an act. You want that cigarette more than you are willing to admit._ There was enough danger and adrenaline rush involved with meeting face-to-face with one of Moriarty's henchmen. Enough to share with someone he knew was as addicted to it as he was. But, his Norwegian alter ego was far too cool a customer to show anything but total control, so Sherlock played the part and pushed his avatar John back into the recesses of his memory.

Viktor slid the silver lighter across the table and Sherlock lit up, adding more smoke to the room. Then he spoke. "So, Barsukov."

"Which one? The uncle, the father or the delicious Yelena?"

"You have business with all three?"

"Of course. Well, I say that, but the old man is in a max security prison in Moscow- so that was past business. The brother is like a dragon sitting on top of a hoard of gold- protecting it and waiting for better times. I have introduced him to a few bankers who are willing to risk doing business with the Tambov." Viktor took a sip of the smoky tea, aptly called Russian Caravan.

Sigursson mirrored his movements, then took another deep drag on the cigarette. For a moment, he closed his eyes in bliss, feeling the rush of nicotine opening his mind to new levels of understanding. Then the answer appeared, as he released the smoke from his lungs. "Yelena came to you with a better offer for the painting." It wasn't a question.

Viktor gave a nervous smile. "Well, why not play both sides? Our mutual boss had fun with the little London girl and took her money. I have done the same with the Russian one. I got… a friend in London involved, so the painting is here."

His mind lit up by the nicotine, the consulting detective was making inspired connections. "Hmmm, so Moran helped. I expect he didn't actually _tell_ the boss."

The startled look on Viktor's face confirmed his supposition. The blond Norwegian continued, "Moran likes playing with Russians".* Sherlock now realised why Boris Barsukov was so blasé about the theft; he must have realised that his own daughter was the person seeking to become a  _Vor_.  "To whom is Yelena trying to sell it?"

"She's aiming high- trying to link up with Nikolai Shamalov. Her father doesn't know. Shamalov is important."

There was something in the man's voice that irritated the blond. He just stared at the small man, who realised that he might have overstepped the mark.

"Okay, okay…so you know he's Mister Bank Rossiya Russiya. Well, so does she. Yelena knows he is a demigod amongst the oligarchs. Papa would be proud, if he knew about it, and could get over his snobbishness about the  _bratva_. She's selling the painting to the man she wants to be her lover- at a price way above what it would get as a money laundering asset." He smirked. "She's flirting now, but will learn that he's not attracted to women. Turns out he wants to give it to a big shot Swiss banker as a thank you present. Something about the place that is in the painting being in his home canton; anyway, the guy did him a big favour and shifted a big load of bearer bonds. This is his thank you."

"Sentiment."

"Yes, of course, it adds value. Once the sale is done, she gets to go back and brag to her father, saying she's the smart one and it's about time to hand over the reins to the next generation."

Lars sniffed, allowing his derision to show on his face. "Why are  _you_  getting involved in something so…trivial. You are paid to pay attention to the big clients. Our mutual friend will not be amused that you waste your time with has-beens or wanna-be criminals- or that you are playing with his subordinate, the sniper, without telling him."

That made Viktor shift in his seat. Then a pair of dark, defiant eyes lifted from the tea cup to stare into the Norwegian's blue grey eyes. "Is that what the  _leak_  in my office said? Well, Mister Sigursson. Since  _you_  arrived on the scene four months ago, business coming through here has been a little thin. Muscling in on what was once my territory means that the centre of action is shifting to Scandinavia. That means less action here, less to earn my commission."

"So, you thought a little freelance work might compensate and keep your bank balance up. And you are using this to get into bed with Shamalov- and I don't mean that figuratively."

It was as if he had slapped Viktor across the face. His eyes went wide with fear. He whispered, " _no one knows_  that.  _No one._  Not Yelena, nor Nikolai's wife."

" _I_  know." Sigurson gave him a predatory smile as he stubbed out the last of his cigarette and reached for the pack by Kogan's tea cup. He helped himself to another cigarette and used the silver lighter, which he pocketed when he finished. The smaller man watched, but did nothing to stop him. His face did flush a bit.

When Viktor then reached nervously for the cigarettes, his hand was pinned to the table by Sigursson's. "Your sex life is not interesting to me. But your independent thinking is  _noticed_. Your computer is not secure. I know that you have been increasing your commission on the business done, without telling London. If I pass on what I know about your bank balance to him, not even Moran will be able to save your skin."

Now Viktor's dark eyes were angry and terrified. "If you want to destroy me, then why are we having this conversation?"

That brought a cruel smirk to the blond man's face. "The  _bratva_  have taught you well. I want something from you. Yelena Barsukova doesn't actually have the painting- it would be too obvious, so I am assuming that you are holding it for her- and you want to be seen by your lover as the one bringing him this token of gratitude. When are you due to deliver it to Shamalov and collect the money from him?"

"Мать Бога -  _how_  do you know this? That's not even on my computer or my phone! Did Yelena tell you the plan?"

He just shook his head. "She didn't have to. Now this is what you are going to do…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Moran's use of a Russian to "interrogate" Sherlock is mention in my earlier story in this series, Collateral Damage.


	7. Chapter 7

The blonde woman might be tiny, but the gun she was pointing at Sherlock wasn't. "Why are you  _interfering_?"

The plan had been simple. As Lars, Sherlock forced Viktor to change his approach. The Russian would not be delivering the painting to his banker lover on Sunday morning as promised. If he wanted to escape being exposed as on the take to Moriarty, then he would bring the painting to the Norwegian who would complete the transaction in his place. Sherlock would take it to Shamalov himself. He told Viktor it was to ensure that the deal was "clean" and conformed to the arrangement made by Moriarty with Rachel Harmon. In fact, once in front of the banker, Sherlock intended to explain that the deal was off and that the painting was going back to London. The insurers' commission would not be needed, because no sale had actually taken place. He had a ticket to Heathrow, and would leave for the airport straight from the meeting with Shamalov.

Only instead of Viktor arriving at the deserted office of the Russian Union of Industrialists and Entrepreneurs to hand over the painting, Yelena showed up at the rendezvous site instead. She said that Viktor had told her of the plan and asked her to come, too. "Because he said he was being threatened by a Norwegian who worked for the same network as he does. So, what do I find here? Not a Norwegian, but someone who Rachel said was a consultant for the police."

Sherlock sighed. He pulled off the blond wig and ruffled his curls. "Thank God- that was driving me crazy."

Yelena's voice was a little shaky but the aim of her gun did not waver. " _Who are you?_ "

"The man who is going to give you what you want- a victory to get your father to accept you as his heir apparent. But, I am also going to do it without costing Rachel Harmon her career- which you don't want to happen either, if I am not mistaken."

"I will pay her back from the sale proceeds; she will not lose her house. I could not do that to her. But when she loses her job, she will come to me. I love her."

"So the flirting with Shamalov was all a sham? He likes to hide his own orientation by being seen with women. And you are happy to oblige for the same reason. So long as your father doesn't know that your pretend lover is a  _bratva_. Two homosexuals in a mutually protective charade- yes, I can see the merits in this hostile environment. Putin's Russia is so intolerant. Does Shamalov understand the significance of your new little cat tattoo? Will he understand the skull that is soon to join it?*"

She blushed. "The cat is hidden where only a real lover would see it, so he won't know. And the skull joins it only if my father agrees. Okay, you know that I am a thief. So what? Tell me something I don't know."

"You aren't a murderer."

She shrugged. "Not yet, but I could learn. Are you? Is that why Viktor is missing? He was supposed to be here with the painting. Instead I find you. Have you killed him?"

"No, why would I? I need him to hand over the painting. I suggest we adjourn from here and see what has detained him. His flat is two stops on the metro."

She accompanied him, but her hand rested on the gun in her coat pocket for the whole journey.

oOo

Whatever else he had intended to happen to Viktor, it wasn't this. Sherlock looked down at the mutilated body sitting slumped on the sofa. There was a bullet hole between his eyes, but his trousers had been pulled down around his ankles and a knife used to destroy his genitals.  _Post mortem_ \- at least the damage had not been done while Viktor was alive.

He looked up at Yelena Barsukovna, who was transfixed by the gruesome sight that greeted them when Sherlock picked the lock and they went into Viktor's apartment.

"Why?" whispered the petite woman.

Sherlock shook his head. "The more important question is  _who_."

She looked confused, as she tore her eyes away from the bloody body to look at him. "Who would do such a thing?"

In answer to her question, the consulting detective gave her a sad wry smile, "Too many people. This is not a safe country in which to be a homosexual. Perhaps the other shareholders in his lover's bank objected to his choice of bedfellow, or perhaps the banker's wife. Or someone hated Viktor Kogan’s family- the  _bratva_  love to take it out on a family member when they can't reach the main man. Then there are his consultancy clients, any one of which might have taken exception to his taking too large a commission. The queue of possible murderers, not to mention motives, is too long and we don’t have time."

He looked around the room, and found what he was searching for. "We can rule out burglary as the motive." He gestured at the cardboard package leaning up against the glass dining table- it was the right shape to be the painting. He swept across the room, slipped it out of the box and nodded. Then he sat at the table, waking up the laptop that was open. A burst of typing and then some clicks followed. Yelena found the strength to take her eyes off the dead body, move away from the sofa and came to stand behind him so she could see what he was doing.

Sherlock pointed to a line of figures in what was Viktor's secret bank account, "Definitely not burglary." This was the account he had cracked a month ago to investigate what was going on in the St Petersburg office of the Moriarty network. "While I have this open…I will take advantage of the fact that no one else but the murderer is yet aware that he is dead. I am going to pay you half a million US dollars out of this account for the painting right now. Then you can say truthfully to your father that you have earned your status as  _Vor_. But I have two conditions. First, you put that gun away and stop thinking of yourself as a killer. You are too smart to waste your life being a hired gun."

"You work with the London Police. Why would you… _allow_  me to become a  _Vor_ of the _Tambovskaya_?"

"Because I can do nothing to stop what is the established way of doing business here. But, people like you who use their brain more than brawn might help improve things. I am not a judge, Yelena. I came to get the painting."

"So, that is your second condition? You take the painting."

"When I take it back to London, it will be designated a gift from a grateful Russian donor- you could even put your father's name to that, if you think he would appreciate it."

"That's what you English call a 'win-win'." She looked over at Viktor's body. "Unfortunately, he didn't get to share in that."

"Don't waste your sentiment on him. He was double-crossing the person that Rachel went to for her plan- and leaving her wide open to disaster.” He sniffed. “Type in your bank account details on that line.” He gestured to the screen.

Yelena kept the gun in her hand as she bent over the keyboard to input her details with one hand.

Sherlock continued speaking as she typed. “If Viktor had not died tonight, it was only a matter of time. Once the painting showed up in London, then the queue would form of people willing to murder him for his failure." Sherlock didn't tell her that Lars Sigursson would make sure that he got the credit for exposing Viktor's disloyalty to Moriarty.

Yelena watched as he transferred the money. Then she put the gun back in her purse. "I will use some of the money to pay off Rachel's debt to this consultant of hers. It is not fair that she should suffer." She picked up the cardboard box with the painting and handed it to him as he stood up. "I am glad it is going out of the country. I do not think I could ever see it again without knowing what it has cost. Take it and leave now."

That's exactly what he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Russian mafia use an extraordinary range of tattoos to proclaim their exploits and connections. Even more than the Japanese Yakuza, the bratva have a complex code; a cat is a thief. Each different bratva has its own unique version of a skull to identify its people. Sherlock would know that - given his fascination with skulls.


	8. Chapter 8

On the way back from Heathrow in the back of a late night taxi, Sherlock was busy texting, sending the good news to Martin Pederson.  _Well, you did say day or night._ The insurer's reply by text came within minutes.

**01.17am You are a miracle worker. Bring it to my office – I'm in by seven am.**

_One satisfied customer_. He'd leave the auction house and the Tate until the morning. As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, he stopped long enough to scratch his scalp. The blond wig had been removed as soon as he left the terminal five building, raising the eyebrows of the cabbie. He didn't care; let him think whatever he wanted to about the disguise. Sherlock was happy to leave his alter ego behind. There had been a surreal aspect to his occupation of the persona of Lars Sigursson. Useful, he had to admit- he'd learned more on his trip to St Petersburg about Moriarty's network than he ever anticipated, having sucked out the entire contents of Kogan's laptop onto a USB. The three and a half hour flight passed almost without notice, as he buried himself into the minutiae of criminal consultancy work. The codes that let him into other criminal consultants in the European network were priceless intelligence; some were so heavily encrypted that it would take hours more to wrestle them free. But, for the first time since he'd made his decision to pursue this path, Sherlock could see some of what he would have to take on, once he escaped from Moriarty's clutches. There would be a kind of life after death.

It wouldn't be  _fun_ ; he knew that now in a practical way which had only been theoretical before. Lars was a member of Moriarty's criminal network and Sherlock could not ignore the fact that he'd witnessed the death of another such criminal. So, danger would be ever present, with no one to share the risk. That brought a certain person to mind. He was tired, and the stray thought annoyed him, especially when it recalled a particular avatar with whom he would rather not converse.  _I have to do this alone. Alone protects you, John_.

His John just asked in that way of his,  _Can you really do this, Sherlock, pretend to be someone else all of the time?_  Sherlock sighed. He had no issues with assuming the persona as he had in St Petersburg, alongside who he really was. Would it be as simple when there was  _no_  opportunity to be 'himself'? But that thought made him wonder just how much he inhabited the role called 'Sherlock Holmes', which consisted of playing what other people saw in him, or believed him to be, even John. What was he  _really,_ when all the acting was set aside? Such questions made him feel uncomfortable. So he did what he always did when such things came into his mind. He shoved them into a spare room in the Mind Palace, locked the door, told the John avatar to disappear, and moved on. Still, it was disconcerting that he could feel a pair of reproachful eyes following him down the corridor of his Mind Palace.

As the taxi made its way on a nearly empty M4 toward the centre of London, Sherlock felt his spirits lifting; it was far easier to enjoy the here and now, rather than worry about the future. Beside him on the taxi seat was a clear plastic portfolio, which appeared to include a series of water colour prints from the Hermitage Museum shop. In fact, all but one of the set of prints had been purchased at the airport concession. Should anyone have thought to ask, they would have been told they were "souvenirs for the family." The ruse worked- Pulkova airport staff were more concerned about other things. The friendly but busy spaniels worked by security officers were trained to sniff out currency, drugs, explosives – but not nineteenth century watercolours, so Sherlock's contraband passed through unnoticed. Not only had he recovered the painting without having to use the insurer's promise of ransom money, he'd actually siphoned out Kogan's account enough to form a 'slush fund' of his own. Buried in a numbered Swiss bank account opened by Lars, this would be enough to fuel his campaign against Moriarty- without having to rely on either Elizabeth or (heaven forbid) Mycroft. This was a real 'win-win' and he let himself savour the moment of victory.

Once he decanted from the taxi onto the pavement outside 221b, he entered quietly, not wanting to wake either an inquisitive flatmate or a curious landlady. He measured his journey up the seventeen steps to miss the creaking floorboard, carrying the wheeled suitcase rather than bumping it up the stairs. As he opened the door to the flat, however, he realised the hall light was on, and then came John's quiet greeting.

"So, the prodigal returns."

Sherlock stopped in mid-stride, looking quizzically up at his pyjama-clad flatmate standing there on the next landing.

"I have neither been profligate or wasteful, nor am I seeking forgiveness from my father, who died over twenty years ago. No fatted calf is to be slain. So to what does your biblical comment refer?"

"It's just a saying, Sherlock. And I do think you owe me an apology for disappearing for three days without a word."

The taller man resumed his climb and then deposited his case on the floor, before moving past John and into the living room. He didn't answer his flatmate's question.

He didn't need to see the resigned look on John's face as the doctor realised he wasn't going to get an answer. "Do you want a cup of tea? That's where I was heading when I heard you trying to sneak in." Without waiting for Sherlock to reply, John went in and put the kettle on, dragging down two cups from the cupboard over the sink.

"I didn't want to wake you."

"You didn't wake me, I was up already."

Sherlock deposited the portfolio on the table and then sank into his chair, closing his eyes.  _Home_. The contentment lasted only a moment, before reality ate away at the comforting thought.  _There will be no home, once I have to leave Baker Street._ Taking down Moriarty's network from within would take him away from all this. He gratefully took the offered cup of tea when it came.  _And John, too._

The doctor dropped into his own chair and eyed him. "Do me a favour; don't pretend. When you tried to creep in, you weren't actually being considerate; you just wanted to avoid this conversation, didn't you?"

"What conversation?"

John smirked. "The one where I tell you that just because I didn't jump on your bandwagon when you went after the stolen painting, that didn't mean that I stopped wanting to know what was going on and what you were doing. And then you replying that any such feelings are just sentiment and a total waste of time."

Sherlock sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of the tea, and then sighed. "The Russians don't know how to make tea; not like this."

John's eyebrows shot up. " _Russia_? You were in  _Russia_  for the case?"

"Yes. Why else would I go there? And, by the way, I did leave you a note."

The doctor snorted and then shook his head. "A yellow sticky on the fridge that said- 'I'm going out now; could be some time' doesn't count."

Sherlock shrugged. "It was true."

"Well, it wasn't exactly the  _whole_  truth, or even a part of it. Yesterday morning I was worried enough because you’d left your phone and laptop behind that I called Mycroft to see if he had any idea where you were."

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of tea and raised his tired eyes to meet John's, with a question in his gaze.

"He said, and I quote, 'No idea where the idiot has gone and I am not allowed to care.' Then he hung up on me. What's going on, Sherlock?"

"One part of your biblical reference was accurate, John. My elder brother is quite seriously annoyed with me. And, that actually makes me even happier." Sherlock pointed at the plastic portfolio on the table. "The Turner painting is in there- safely recovered, and even better than that- it's being donated to the British people by a grateful Russian donor. The owners will get their money, the gallery gets to keep displaying it, and all's well that ends well." He smirked. "That fact will annoy my brother, so I intend to make the most of it. I will step out of the background, not hide in the shadows on this one. Let the publicity machine get to work, so I can rub Mycroft's nose in it. A press conference just might teach him not to meddle in the flow of my cases."

Now it was John's turn to look surprised. "You  _want_  to talk to the papers? What happened to the idea that you need anonymity to be a private detective?"

Sherlock finished the tea and set the mug down on the floor beside his chair. "Those days are over, John. I need to attract attention now, so the cases find me, whatever he tries to do. So, by all means, write away on your blog. He will still try to filter case requests that come that way, but it won't stop people from contacting me through other channels. The more publicity, the better."

John gave him a thoughtful look. "Okay, but I'm coming with you. The idea of you talking to the newspapers on your own is…" he seemed to run out of the words, but then continued, "well, that's … _dangerous_. And this is one event I'd like to capture for the blog, if you don't mind."

Sherlock thought about it. He knew he should be distancing himself from John, especially if the whole point of the exercise was really to provoke Moriarty.  _Just not yet. There's still some time left and I'm selfish enough to admit that I don't want to do without you this early._  So, he nodded, and saw a smile light up John's face.

oOo

Eighteen hours later, across London, in the leafy crescent streets around Holland Park, scissors were being used to cut a newspaper. The front page of the Evening Standard read "Saved for the Nation", and beneath it the paragraph of bold text read:  _A Turner masterpiece worth £1.7million that was stolen from an auction house ten days ago has been recovered by an amateur detective from North London. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street has been investigating the art crime simply as a hobby, and yet he was able to follow the trail that led him to the famous work – a trail that Scotland Yard missed completely_.

"Another one for the scrapbook, Seb, don't you think? Sherlock's been  _very naughty_  this time. Figuring out the double theft; well, I didn't really think he had it in him." He used a white Prit stick to gum the edges of the article, and then pressed it into the blank page of the book. It was half full. "Well done, my little consulting detective." He giggled. " _Amateur_  detective, indeed. I'll bet you just loved that little adjective." Moriarty closed the scrapbook and replaced it on the shelf. The room was tastefully furnished- a gentleman's library filled with rare and expensive volumes.

The blond sniper behind him tried to hide his disquiet. When his scheme failed to deliver the painting into the hands of the end buyer, Sebastian Moran thought that his boss would be livid. Instead, the Irishman was positively jovial.

"Diamond cufflinks? Oh my God, they couldn't have insulted the man's intelligence more if they tried. Any idiot can see that his shirts don't have French cuffs. The man's addicted to button-downs. To miss that obvious a fact shows their stupidity so deliciously."

Seb wanted to see how much Jim had figured out about the second theft, so he probed gently. "We lost a man as a result of his meddling. Kogan had his uses."

"Well, Tiger, I'm not so sure about that." Jim fondled the binding of the scrapbook next to the one he had just replaced on the shelf. This one was much, much thinner. The initials MH were embossed in gold on the binding. "I know you have a fondness for Russians, but the new Norwegian seems to have rescued things well enough."

Behind him, Sebastian stiffened at the comment. "How can you trust a man whom you've never laid eyes on?"

Jim giggled. "I don't need my eyes, little Tiger; I use my  _brain_." Then the Irishman sighed. "Don't suppose  _you_  can understand that, can you?" He shifted the stroking to the binding on the scrapbook he'd just replaced, the one that had SH in gold lettering.

Moran did not hide his annoyance. "Well, my  _brain_  tells me that if this Sigursson was all that good, he'd have stopped Holmes in his tracks and recovered the painting himself. And he wouldn't have let Kogan's murderer clean out the bank account. "

"Ooh, do I detect a bit of peevish jealousy?" Jim whirled around and put a hand out to stroke down the stubbly cheek of the sniper. Watching the brown eyes try to control his military training to avoid flinching away, Moriarty started to laugh. Then he grabbed the man's chin and twisted just a little, to emphasise his dominance. "Funny thing is, Sebbie my boy, my money is on Lars as being the one who did the deed- both the murder and the theft. And he's let Holmes go so I can figure out who was the double dealer at this end- the one who helped Kogan steal it from my client. Would you happen to know anything about  _that_?"

Seb could only shake his head in denial.

"No, didn't think so. At least, not as you'd admit it." Jim released the chin. "Don't you worry that pretty little head of yours about the Holmes boys. The showdown is coming; just a matter of time and some good planning." He turned away and pulled another book down from the shelf. This one was titled  ** _The Crown Jewels at the Tower of London_**.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this story. Onto the next of the three cases: Bad Banker, which will start in two days' time.

**Author's Note:**

> * all true- the painting is real, and its history as recounted here is, too. But not the theft. I blame MOFFTISS for that.


End file.
